


Witch, Wanted

by ALoza



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Stiles, Eventual Smut, Forbidden Love, M/M, Top!Derek, Werewolf!Derek, Werewolf!Scott, Witch!Allison, Witch!Lydia, Witch!Stiles, Witches, alpha!Derek, sterek, werewolf!jackson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALoza/pseuds/ALoza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Witches and werewolves in New Orleans. Forbidden love and a brewing war between covens and wolf packs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witch, Wanted

One

The school was hidden in plain sight, just along one of the busier streets of New Orleans. But tall, wrought iron gates helped obscure it from wandering eyes; ivy climbed up the ivory columns, spreading and reaching like lightning or a series of veins, but the mansion was untouched by the greenery.

Stiles gulped, feeling the lump in his throat grow bigger and harder to swallow. His stomach twisted and just for a moment, he thought he might lose it. 

It’d only been a week since he discovered the truth that he was a witch, and that his mother, his kind and beautiful mother, had been one, too. His father had kept the secret from him, knowing how rare a male witch was, and never dreamed that his son, his smart, sarcastic, witty son, would have inherited the gene. 

But there he was, hundreds of miles away from home, alone and terrified, staring at the establishment that he would soon call home. The humidity clung to his skin and wiped away the sweat from his forehead. 

He didn’t notice the figure standing next to him, so he yelped and flailed to the ground when she spoke, “Mr. Stilinski?”

She looked severely underwhelmed and unimpressed. 

“Uh-yeah-I mean, yes, that’s me,” he stammered, lifting himself to his feet, reaching for his suitcases. He blinked at her. She was nothing like he’d imagined a witch to look like. No warts, no hat, no green skin. She was actually quite lovely, but there was something in her eyes, something cold. 

“Come with me, please,” she said, rolling her eyes.

If it weren’t for the scowl that seemed permanently pressed to her face, she would be beautiful; pale, clear skin, with wide shiny eyes, long red hair that curled at the ends. She wore all black, of course, but Stiles guessed it was some sort of uniform. 

“You can just call me Stiles,” he said, trailing behind her, struggling with his bags. 

The gate’s open on their own, creaking horribly. The girl let him through first before waving her wrist and the gates shut again. She made a face, raising a perfectly manicured brow. 

“Lydia,” she said, taking the lead.

The front yard was well maintained, with small gardens spotted across the bright, healthy green grass. There were statues on either side of the stone path leading to the front door. A black cat was stretched on the front steps, looking at him lazily before turning away, like his presence somehow insulted her napping. Stiles smirked at it. 

Lydia opened the front door, and surprisingly, the hinges didn’t creak. She held it out for him, clicking her jaw. 

“Get in,” she said.

And he did.

Inside, everything was made of marble and white. The floor seemed to emit it’s own pearlescent glow, although it might have been from the skylight letting in the pale gray overcast light. Stiles’ jaw dropped. It was beautiful. There was a set of his and her staircases, winding up and leading to an second floor, where there was a line of statues adorning the railing. 

“Follow me,” Lydia called, and Stiles followed the sound of her heels.

He scrambled to catch up, being mindful to knock anything expensive over, but still trying to see as much as he could. 

“Hurry up, you can have a tour after you’ve met with Madame Blanchett,” Lydia snapped, “and leave your things there, you won’t be needing them.”

Stiles nodded and swallowed. “Um, yeah, okay.”

She lead him down a well lit hall, the fluorescent white walls made his eyes sting. 

“It’s definitely a lot brighter in here than I thought it was going to be,” Stiles says. “And whiter.”

“Why, did you think that just because we’re witches we’d decorate the mansion with Halloween garbage?” Lydia asked, unamused, still ten steps in front of him and not bothering to look back. 

“You’re kind of cranky, aren’t you?” Stiles asked, making a face and slouching. 

She spun around, smiling, and without a trace of kindness in her voice said, “Wait here.”

She disappeared down the hall, through a pair of white doors with intentionally rusted black door knobs. He sighed. He didn’t say that he didn’t like it, just the it he wasn’t expecting it to look so clean and sterile, like a medical building. He half expected there to be portraits hanging on the walls, but there was nothing, just lights spaced out evenly through the hall. 

He stomach sank and he leaned against the wall, letting his nerves rattle through his body. In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have mouthed off to her, considering that she was a witch, and could probably turn him into a toad or something equally unappealing.

He ran his fingers through his hair, breathing in through his mouth and out his nose. He could already feel the traces of panic attack reeling through him. He relaxed and tried to focus on the checkered marble pattern of the tiled floor. 

The doors opened and Lydia stepped out, hands on her hips, nailed painted red, Stiles noticed. 

“She’ll see you,” she said, smirking. 

He gulped, his lips feeling dry even after he finished licking them.

She stopped in front of him, ruffling his hair, and raising the same perfectly plucked and shaped brow, “You’re not what I imagined either.”

And then she was gone, the sound of her hears clacking behind her the only evidence that she was even there. That and the lingering scent of her rose oil. 

The hallway seemed to stretch out in front of him for miles as his shaky legs carried him towards the doors. His stomach flipped and dived in his belly and he tried desperately to stand tall and not look so terrified. He reached for the knob, but the door opened on it’s own.

“Come in, Mr. Stilinski,” a voice says and his body reacted on it’s own, the fear he felt straddling his chest somehow vanished and his legs carried him inside. 

Witches, he thinks.

The room - the office - was just like the rest of the mansion, well lit and stark white. There was a fireplace rumbling to his right, a bookcase built around it like a mantle, housing thick, old leather bound volumes all the way to the glass ceiling. Stiles’ fingers itched. He wondered what secrets they housed, if he would be learning from them. 

Sitting at the desk, in a black armchair, was the most frightening woman Stiles had ever seen. She wasn’t hideous or disgusting by any means, but something about her sent a shiver carving up his spine. She was older, but younger than sixty he guessed, with bobbed blonde hair and sharp features. Her blue eyes watched him, and he was positive she could see the line of nervous sweat weep down the side of his neck. He tried to level his breathing before she could notice. 

“Have a seat,” she said, motioning to a chocolate brown armchair in front of her desk.

He slid his back against the leather and balled his fist nervously on his lap, his long, thin fingers twisting and untwisting. 

“So,” she said, looking up from a file. “You’re Claudia’s son?”

Stiles nodded, fearing his voice would break if he tried to speak. 

She smiled, mostly to herself, as if she was remembering something pleasant. “Clever girl, Claudia. Smart and sharper than a whip. I was sorry to hear about her passing. I understand that you were there when it happened.” She looked up at him over the file. 

Stiles nodded, again, hoping she’d move on.

She saw the wavering in his eyes, the promise of tears, “I’m sorry about your loss. Now, let us proceed.”

Grateful, Stiles let himself relax. 

“I am Madame Blanchett, but surely you’ve already guessed that,” she said.

He nodded.

“Your father tells me you like to be called Stiles,” she says, looking through the file. “I have no patience for long, difficult names, so I will honor your wishes. Now, it says here you’re first in your class. That’s good, very good, tells me you have an aptitude for learning. But it’s also noted that you have a severe lack of focus. Let me warn you know, Mr. Stilinski, I will not tolerate unruly behavior. This isn’t some little science experiment, this is witchcraft, and when someone isn’t focused while practicing their Craft, things go wrong. Terribly wrong. Is that understood?”

Stiles nodded vigorously, his eyes widening. 

“Good,” she nodded in return. “I understand that before this week, you had no idea that you are what you are, or even that your mother was a witch.”

“Yes,” Stiles said, his voice small. 

“I must tell you, Mr. Stilinski, that you are the first male to set foot in this school. Male witches are rare, so rare that one hasn’t been seen in over two hundred years, so I have no idea if your abilities will materialize or even react in the same fashion as the others.”

Stiles flushed. “Wait. I’m the only boy?”

“Yes,” she said. “You will be a bit of a novelty, I suppose.”

He felt his face burn, cheeks red with embarrassment. 

“How have you adjusted to the news?” she asked, thumbing through his file.

Stiles cleared his throat, building the courage to speak. “Good, all things considered. I mean...I never thought that...” He stops, thinking back to when his father told him, after he’d made the house shake, caused all the glass in the house to shatter. 

“That witches existed?” she finished, still not looking at him, and chuckled softly, again, to herself. 

“Yeah-yes,” he said, nodding. 

“Well, you will soon learn that we aren’t the only secret kept from the public,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“There are others, darker things that lurk amongst the human race. Werewolves, vampires, ghosts,” she listed. 

He gulped, feeling his chest pinch. “W-w-werewolves?” 

“Yes,” she says. “Right here in New Orleans, if you can believe that. Nasty, violent creatures. Of course, you are perfectly safe here. The block has been laced with mountain ash so they cannot cross into our territory.”

“Mountain ash?” he asks. 

“All in good time,” she said, standing and the fire went out. She smiled, “Shall we?”

 

***

Madame Blanchett tells him that there are only fifty students, fifty-one now that he’d arrived. The dorms were on the second floor, and that Stiles would have to bunk with Lydia - his stomach sank at the name - and Allison until she could find him more proper accommodations. She warned him that there was to be no funny business, and Stiles blushed.

“That won’t be a problem,” he says, looking away nervously.

She raised an eyebrow knowingly and smirked. 

The tour was long and soon became little more than a blur in Stiles’ memory. He remembered the library, of course, and the kitchen and dining room, where a long, skinny dining table sat bare in the center of the parlor. 

“So, do I like, get a wand?” Stiles asked when the tour neared it’s end, trailing behind Madame Blanchett’s stride.

She stopped and made a dissatisfied taste. “Would you like a broom and pointed hat as well?”

He hung his head, shrugging. “I just thought...”

She snorted. “You will quickly learn that everything you think you know about witches, is wrong. Now, this is your room. Lights out is at midnight. Most of the girls will be out by now, classes end at three and the rest of the day is yours. You will be expected to acquire a job if you wish to have spending money. Meals, of course, are provided and served every night at eight. Now, have a nice evening, Mr. Stilinski. Explore the grounds, if you wish, become better acquainted with the mansion. You will find that it tends to have a mind of it’s own.”

She cupped his chin, whispering, “Just the spitting image of your mother,” and walked down the hallway, disappearing down a winding staircases. 

Stiles felt the words echo in his chest. 

The number 25 was emblazoned onto the wood, and Stiles opened the door, his lungs filling with a delightful, rosy scent. 

The room was fairly large with high walls and a glass ceiling. The walls are slightly more inviting, a soft eggshell color with random adornments hanging, black and white photos of random scenery or strangers.There were three dressers pressed against the farthest wall. To his right were two beds, both queen sized, with intricate headboards. They had matching comforters, a soft pink color with daisy yellow pillows. Close to the window, across the room, was a third bed, this one blue and gray, with a plain wrought iron headboard. His suitcases sat the end of the bed and his traveling bag was sprawled on the bed. 

“I suppose you’re mine,” he said to himself.

He threw himself onto the bed, letting reality slowly settle around him and he tried not to let the flood of emotions lead him to tears. Witches. Werewolves. Vampires. Ghosts. Suddenly he was living in a different universe, where “scary stories” aren’t just stories. 

It was barely four in the afternoon and he was already exhausted, crying would probably lull him to sleep. It’s not dark enough to sleep, but the somber light coming through the windows was relaxing. He felt his muscles loosen and tighten again when the door opened. 

Lydia and another girl, Allison he assumed, step inside. 

Allison was slight and pretty with long brown hair, and not nearly as wicked looking as Lydia. She smiled at Stiles. 

“Hey,” he waved. 

“You’re coming with us,” Lydia said, running her nail filer over her nails, not looking at him, too concentrated on the uneven edge of her pinky nail. 

“Where?” he asked, frowning. He was tired and didn’t have the energy to go trouncing through the busy New Orleans streets. He just was wanted to curl up and cry, let out all the pent up stress messily coiled in his chest. 

“Out,” she said, reaching for a her bag that rested on her bedside table. 

“Is this a mandatory trip?” Stiles asked.

Lydia smirked. “Everything I say is mandatory.”

Stiles sighed, not wanting to argue with her. They were perfect strangers, but there was something about her sassy, maybe even snobbish, attitude that he liked. 

He stood up, straightening his clothes.

“Will you at least tell me where we’re going?” Stiles asked. 

“You’ll see,” is all she said before wrapping her fingers around his wrist. 

************

The only thing Stiles can think while walking through the streets, with Lydia at the helm, strutting like she’s on a catwalk, wearing a tight black dress and an elbow length cape with matching designer sunglasses, is “Something Wicked this way Comes”. Her red hair was pulled to the side, bouncing to the sway of her hips. There was something dangerous about her gait, something elegant, and Stiles couldn’t really pinpoint why. 

“Are either of you going to tell me where we’re going?” he asked, pushing through the tourists, but they didn’t seem to notice them, like they were invisible. 

Allison laughed, light and airy. She lifted her sunglasses and adjusted her black sunhat. 

“Relax, Stiles,” she said. 

“What sort of name is Stiles anyways?” Lydia interrupted, looking back long enough to give him a hard look. 

Yes, she’s definitely dangerous.

“It’s a nickname,” Stiles said.

“For?” she asked, slowing down to reapply her bright red lipstick, catching Stiles’ eyes in her compact. 

“Let’s just say I don’t really like my name,” Stiles said.

She shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

The street was crowded and there was electricity in the air. Even on a dreary day like this, the crowds spread endlessly through the city. Music and food clouded around him and he was transfixed by the city life. Everything was loud and joyous, street musicians blaring on their instruments, people inviting guests into their restaurants with the promise of authentic home-cooked Louisiana favorites. 

“Where are you from?” Allison asked, looping her arm with his, smiling. 

“Um, California,” he said, nervously. 

“City of Angels? I hear the shopping is to die for,” Lydia said, eyes lingering in shop windows. 

“Uh, no, it’s a small town called Beacon Hills,” Stiles corrected.

“Boring,” Lydia sighed.

Stiles glared and chewed on the inside of his mouth to keep from retaliating in some way. 

“What’s it like there?” Allison asked, genuinely interested.

Stiles shrugged, pondering, because he hadn’t actually thought what Beacon Hills must have looked like to an outsider. “It’s quiet. There really isn’t much to it.”

“How did you end up here?”

Stiles swallowed and squared his jaw, feeling the memory creep back into his mind. “My father and I were having an argument, I don’t even remember about what. And then...the house started shaking. I thought it was an earthquake, but...I felt it, like I was causing it. Then the windows blew out and I fainted.” He blinked at them. 

He hadn’t realized that they’d stopped and both Allison and Lydia were looking at him carefully, quietly. All around him, there was silence, and judging from the concentrated expression of Lydia’s face, Stiles guessed it was her doing. 

“You mean, you didn’t know before that?” Lydia asked, eyebrow twitching from obvious strain. 

He shook his head. “Nope.” He popped his lips with a loud “puh”. 

Allison frowned. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how you must have felt.”

He looked away uncomfortably. “When I woke up, my dad had already contacted Madame Blanchett and he told me everything...about my mom being a witch...about me being one, too. I’ve never seen him look so...sad. And scared. But he wasn’t scared of me. I could tell that he was scared for me. My dad’s the sheriff of Beacon Hills,” he added. 

Lydia sighed and let the lines in her forehead relax. “Well, you’re here now, so let’s make the most of it.” Noise filled the air and Stiles winced like when you accidentally turn on the TV and the volumes way too loud. 

Stiles smiled weakly and let them drag him through the streets without protest. 

***

“I asked Madame if we got wands,” Stiles admitted, buttoning up one of the dress shirts the girls had picked for him. He hears them burst into laughter behind the dressing room door and blushes. 

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Allison snorted.

“Hey, how the hell was I supposed to know that we couldn’t do that sort of magic?” Stiles snapped, looking at his reflection. The black made him look pale, paler than usual. 

“You have to stop relying on Harry Potter from this point on,” Lydia said. “No wands. No spells-”

“No spells?” Stiles interrupted, voice heavy with complete disappointment. 

“Jesus,” Lydia sighed, and Stiles imagined how hard she’d rolled her eyes. “Magic is based on the elements, on using the forces provided by nature. But it isn’t simply limited to that. Earth, fire, water, air, yes, but also blood, metals, kinetic energy, forcing your will into another’s mind and changing their thoughts,” Lydia explains. “There are also special gifts, like being clairvoyant, or telepathic, which is mostly found in twin witches. Don’t expect to be able to teleport or make things appear at will either. We aren’t comic book superheroes.”

Stiles frowned and opened the door, “That’s lame. Harry Potter is way cooler.”

Lydia raised a brow and looked him up and down, twisting her lips to the side. “You look like a waiter.”

“You picked this out,” Stiles argued.

“I didn’t say it looked bad,” she snapped, “just that you look like you should be serving me food.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Okay, next,” Lydia said, crossing her legs. 

Allison shrugged, pursing her lips, “I don’t know, I think it looks nice. Madame said black, and it’s black.”

“Thank you,” Stiles gestured, smiling at his reflection. 

“No,” Lydia said simply.

He glared at her through the mirror and shut the door and began undressing himself. “How do you know if you’re clairvoyant or telepathic?”

“Have you had premonitions or read any minds lately?” Lydia asked sarcastically. 

“Um, no,” Stiles said.

“Then you’re not clairvoyant or telepathic. Those gifts don’t just manifest later in life, you’re born with them and you’re aware of them.”

Stiles pulled on a plain black V-neck, it was a little short and revealed part of his stomach. But combined with the black cardigan Allison had picked, you couldn’t even tell. He switches into a pair of black, straight shorts that showcased how ghostly pale he actually was.

“Madame will never allow the shorts, but they are cute,” Lydia said when he came out. “The shirt and cardigan combo I approve of, but maybe with the black pants.”

Allison nodded in agreement. “Just get the shorts for days like this, where we’re not stuck inside.”

Stiles smiled, “Yeah, I do look pretty cute.” He admires his reflection, how thin the black made him look. His long, thick, dark eyebrows made him appear younger, giving his face a brighter look, and combined with his upturned nose and larger than average brown eyes, he looked thirteen. 

Lydia smirked. “Perhaps you aren’t completely hopeless after all.”

***

The girls took him to their favorite cafe, a small hole in the wall that seated twenty, or maybe even thirty on a busy day. It was quiet and quaint with black iron garden tables and a skylight. It really was like being in Paris, with the cobbled streets and light, airy perfume of freshly baked goods. 

Lydia’s eyes scanned the menu. “I’m not sure if I’m actually hungry or not.”

“I’m hungry, well I’m always hungry,” Stiles said, trying to make sense of the items on the menu. It was all in French, but he recognized a few words here and there.

“Desserts,” Allison sighed dreamily. 

“Desserts are a must,” Stiles nodded in agreement. “Except I don’t understand a single word on this menu. Did we have to come to a French cafe? I’d be perfectly fine with an American bakery where donuts are donuts and a pie is a called a pie.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. 

“Do your eyes hurt from how often you roll them? I’m very interested, honestly,” Stiles asked, smiling, hoping Lydia could handle the snark for how often she dished it out. 

Allison snorted with laughter next to him and Lydia pursed her lips, opening her mouth to speak -

Suddenly, the air shifted and Stiles felt his spine tingling, goosebumps flowering over his bare arms. He wasn’t cold, but his senses felt completely and utterly exposed. 

He opened his mouth to say something, but Lydia shot him down.

“Shut up,” she snapped fiercely, her eyes widening in the direction of the entrance. Allison dropped her menu and lowered her hat.

Stiles looked back, slowly, trying not to look so obvious.

A small group of men were being seated four tables away from them, the table closest to the corner of the restaurant, seeking some sort of veiled privacy. They’re dressed like bikers, all in leather and denim, faces severe but handsome nonetheless. 

Stiles made a face and Lydia shook her head, jaw clenched, eyes unwavering. 

He mouthed “What?” and waited as Lydia smiled at the waitress and waited for her to disappear before scrawling a word onto her napkin and passing it to him.

Werewolves.

His stomach sank and he’s positive his face turned bright green. Allison clenched his arm and he felt a sharp prickle jab all the way to his shoulder.

Lydia waved down the waitress and apologized, because they really must be going. She stood first, nodding, and they followed, walking quickly but quietly in her stride. She and Allison held their breath, and Stiles followed suit. The werewolves didn’t seem to notice them, so he took the opportunity to stare a bit more closely.

There were four of them, three looked like they were his age, and the oldest wasn’t old in the slightest. He was also easily the most beautiful person Stiles had seen in person. He had sharp features and a nice spray of stubble on his cheeks and jaw. His eyes were light and inhumanly bright, adorned by a pair of magnificently thick and long eyebrows. 

Stiles slowly exhaled, feeling the pressure in his lungs become too much, and suddenly those eyes, those inhuman, hazel eyes, locked with his and narrowed; but he didn’t make any sudden movements, just watched as they hurriedly exited the cafe. 

Lydia yanked on his arm and suddenly they were running; Stiles didn’t think running in heels could look easy, but Lydia and Allison made it look so. 

“Are you crazy?” Lydia snapped, pressing her back against an alleyway, out of breath.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles puffed.

“He saw us,” Lydia said. “The alpha saw us.”

Stiles furrowed his brow. “Alpha?”

“The leader, you twit,” Lydia snarled.

“Lydia, stop, he didn’t know,” Allison said.

She sighed, her whole body shaking, and checked at her reflection through her compact. “It’s okay. It’s fine. We got away.” 

Stiles swallowed. “What’s the big deal anyways?”

Lydia snapped the compact shut. “The big deal is that werewolves are dangerous.”

“But, we’re witches,” Stiles argued. “We have...powers.”

Lydia laughed, but there wasn’t a trace of humor in it. “You’re a beginner and have little to no control over your Craft. The alpha could have taken our heads before Allison and I could have even reacted. Werewolves react differently to magic than humans.”

Stiles blinked, hanging his head, ashamed. His face twisted to the side and he crossed his arms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Well now you do,” Lydia hissed. “Werewolves and vampires have something called a Pull. It’s why they’re so, well for lack of a better word, attractive to humans. It’s how they survive and thrive. It’s why you hesitated when we were leaving, because you haven’t been trained to detect it.”

Stiles’ eyes widened, feeling suddenly betrayed. “Wait-what? So he wasn’t actually that hot?”

Allison laughed, covering her mouth. 

Lydia rolled her eyes, trying not to seem amused. “Yes, he actually was that hot, but isn’t wasn’t his face that made you waver, it was his scent. It’s specifically catered to smell like whatever a person desires.”

Stiles shook his head, “This is all too confusing. I grew up thinking werewolves and vampires and witches would be so cool if they were real. But actually living it - I don’t know what the hell was wrong with me.”

“We aren’t some romanticized idea,” Lydia said. “Being what we are, it’s dangerous.”

“I’m starting to realize that,” Stiles nodded. “But. What happens if we see them again? He saw me, he saw me looking at him. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t think I was just gawking at him.”

Lydia shrugged. “There isn’t much that we can do. By holding our breath, we were masking out scents. But since you breathed, he caught yours. He can’t hold onto it for very long, but to be safe, you shouldn’t leave the mansion for at least a week.”

Stiles sighed, his shoulders slumping back against the wall.

“What would he want with me? You know, if he found me?” Stiles asked, almost too afraid to hear the answer.

Lydia stared him and looked away quickly.

“From what we’ve learned about their kind,” Allison said, “they were cursed, cursed to spend eternity as wolves. But a rival coven of witches gave them an escape, the ability to change from man to wolf. But in their human states, their senses become...weakened. Still stronger than any human, but they’re dulled. For years now, rumors have been spreading of witches aiding in their attempt to become stronger, to help them get their revenge on the coven who turned them.”

Stiles shook his head, “But that must have been like a thousand years ago. There’s no way that coven is even still alive-”

“Why do you think Madame Blanchett keeps the perimeter laced with mountain ash?” Lydia asked, eyebrow raised.

“To keep werewolves and other things out,” Stiles said, matter-of-factly. 

Lydia smirked. “The werewolves won’t attack most witches. They seek out witches from a particular coven, the original coven, the one who cursed them. One guess on who that was.”

Stiles’ stomach dropped and suddenly his heart was beating in his throat. He could taste blood slick the inside of his mouth. He heaved forward and vomited. fingers digging into the loose earth as he wretched, purging with disbelief. 

“Stiles!” Allison cried, holding his shoulders, petting his back softly, easing his shoulders.

Through the build up, he lurched forward, wiping his arm across his mouth, eyes watery and nose dripping, he looked at Lydia, “Madame Blanchett’s ancestors cursed the werewolves?”

Lydia nodded. “And the Blanchett Coven has recently added one new witch. The first male in over two hundred years.” She leaned down, warily meeting his eye. “We should have told you sooner, Stiles. But we’re not the only ones who know about you.”


End file.
